Even If He Is a Prince

Royalty on par with the Crown Prince himself. Only one name rose to mind.

The current Empress's own son, backed by the House of Hensington—a ducal family whose power rivaled that of the imperial house. Second in the line of succession: Prince Renjer.

So that was why Countess Heinrich hadn't been able to speak the name even once. The master of the Rose Garden—known to all, and yet known to none—had been a prince all along.

Once I had guessed the truth, a hollow emptiness settled over me. Because now Lyft's reasons for investigating Dorothy's death were perfectly clear.

What he truly wanted to know was not how a woman they had sneered at as the Rose Garden's Courtesan had died. What he wanted was proof that Prince Renjer was connected to the serial disappearances of eight women—evidence that would drag him down from power.

A chess piece, to be spent profitably in the struggle between the Crown Prince and the Prince.

He would have no interest in Dorothy's pain—betrayed by the husband she had loved, toyed with by a vile man of power, and finally robbed of her life in the most wretched way. Nor in the devastation of the sister who had failed to see that pain.

Everyone. Everything. It was all hideous.

"My lady?"

Lyft called to me in a voice that was, for him, unnaturally careful—as if he thought I had seized him by the collar and then simply gone blank. The man who had dragged me from my sleep and threatened me was changing his manner only because he had decided I might be of use.

How fortunate, then. Use me all you like. I intend to use you—all of you—just the same.

"If it comes out that he murdered Dorothy and the other women, will that man lose his head?"

"Most likely."

"Answer me plainly. Even if he is a prince—will his head still roll?"

Lyft did not reply at once. I hauled on the fistful of his collar I still held, pulling him close enough that our faces nearly touched, and stared into his eyes as I asked again.

"At the very least, he won't escape a life sentence."

"Why? His Highness the Crown Prince would surely sleep better with that man's head off his shoulders."

"My lady, I would advise you to choose your words more carefully."

"And if I don't? Will you take my head instead?"

"My lady!"

Lyft caught me by both shoulders and pushed me back, his voice rising. A laugh welled up in me, and I let it out. I laughed the way he had once laughed at me—a short, derisive puff of breath.

A deep crease cut between Lyft's brows. I shook his hands off and went on.

"I'll cooperate with the investigation. But I have a condition."

"Name it."

The crease between Lyft's brows deepened. He let out a short breath, then nodded.

"If Viscount Cecilla's execution is confirmed, I will look for a way to leave the carrying-out of the sentence in your hands."

He answered as if he had just made a difficult decision. I, however, had never said when I would take that man's head. For now, this was enough.

I turned my face away from him. After a moment he toyed with the salve in his hand and asked,

"Is there anything else you need?"

"Please go. I want to rest."

A brief silence passed, and then came the dull click of the salve being set down on the table.

"Rest well."

He left the room with that short farewell. I drew my knees up and leaned back against the sofa. A nightmare of a headache tormented me through the night, until the morning sun rose at my back.

The next day, invitations sent by the Marchioness of Derian arrived at Daisy House.

I was at a loss among the heap of them, with no idea which gatherings Viscount Cecilla or the members of the 27th Street Club were likely to attend, when an unexpected ally lent a hand.

Noel, the butler of Daisy House, had the web of relationships among nearly every noble in Caliwood committed to memory. He sorted the senders into the Crown Prince's faction, the Empress's faction, and those who kept to the middle, and offered a brief account of the character of each gathering as well.

If I wanted a private word with Viscount Cecilla, a grand ball or a formal banquet would not do. I needed an evening gathering that was loosely elegant, with just enough courtesy to pass. After much deliberation, I chose a concert held in the garden of a noble of the neutral faction.

When I informed Lyft that I would be attending, dresses and jewelry and the like were delivered all day long. Marianne looked uncommonly pleased. I couldn't have cared less about any of it.

The problem was my partner.

Lyft seemed determined to go through with the lover's charade the Marchioness of Derian had suggested as a joke. Or rather, attending the gathering as proxy for the Marchioness—the Crown Prince's own patroness—was a disaster from the start. We might as well have gone about announcing that we were in league with the Crown Prince's Imperial Direct Police Bureau. We'd be lucky if Viscount Cecilla, who had thrown in his lot with the Prince, didn't simply take to his heels.

In the carriage bound for the estate of the Marquis of Moriath, I looked at Lyft sitting across from me and asked,

"You're not planning to trail after me through the reception with that face, I hope?"

"Is there a problem?"

Lyft asked it with his usual cold expression, a chill rolling off him in waves. In that it was no different from any other day, perhaps I ought to have been grateful. Had he been wearing some unnaturally tender smile, I could not have sworn I wouldn't have been the first to flee.

"No. It might even be better this way. Everyone will assume you're there to keep me under watch."

"I'm not accompanying you for the purpose of surveillance, particularly."

"Never mind. When I make contact with Viscount Cecilla, I'd like you to look the other way. I have close business to discuss with him."

"You don't mean to take his head at close quarters, I hope?"

I stared at him, my face a picture of disbelief at the absurdity of the question. With a temperament like his, he couldn't possibly have been joking. Was he asking in earnest?

Take his head at close quarters. If only I could. But today's purpose was the opposite. I needed to establish a connection with Viscount Cecilla. A connection that would lead, through him, all the way to Prince Renjer.

A kiss. As if. For the day I would take that man's head, I was prepared to sell my soul to the devil and call it a bargain.

"You can't be serious."

At the sour note in Lyft's voice I lifted my head, and found him frowning at me, his right eyebrow drawn tight. Whatever he had pictured, it had left him looking thoroughly displeased. I hadn't even asked him to do the kissing.

"I am. If something as paltry as that is enough to get me near the 27th Street Club, I ought to be glad of it."

"The 27th Street Club? My lady, what exactly do you think you're doing?"

"I intend to bring back evidence that will prove the Prince's murders."

Isn't that what you wanted from me? I asked it with my face.

Lyft's expression froze in an instant, and the air in the carriage went cold, as if a frost had settled over it.

"Lady Dvorden. Have you lost your mind?"

Lyft shed even the pretense of courtesy and spoke roughly. He asked if I had gone mad with all the heavy gravity of a man in a rage, and I was so bewildered I couldn't understand why he was reacting this way.

"I am perfectly sane, Count Cayder."

I let my own displeasure show as I answered, and Lyft raked a hand roughly through his hair. The locks that had been so carefully arranged to match his tailcoat fell into disarray.

"Did you hear a single word I said? Nearly ten women have disappeared. We believe they were murdered. Has it not occurred to you that you could be in danger as well?"

"I heard you perfectly. Innocent people were sacrificed, my sister among them. And didn't you say we needed evidence to catch the man responsible?"

"I did not tell you to go and fetch that evidence yourself."

"You told me to cooperate with the investigation!"

The conversation kept circling the same ground, and frustration raised my voice. Lyft drew a deep breath, steadied himself, and spoke in a calmer tone.

"I asked you to go about stirring up the matter of Viscountess Cecilla's death. I told you that, in doing so, certain parties would come approaching you. Do you remember?"

He had said that, yes. I hadn't understood it precisely at the time, but he had meant that Viscount Cecilla or the 27th Street Club would try to silence me—by killing me. Men who had already killed eight women would hardly blink at adding one more. And when they made their move, he had meant to use that as a pretext to open a proper investigation into Dorothy's death.

What I couldn't fathom was why he was now pretending to worry about me.

"And so?"

"That is the extent of the cooperation I asked of you. All you need do is make official the suspicion that Viscountess Cecilla's death was not a suicide. Everything after that is the Bureau's affair."

"No. This is my sister's affair. Which makes it mine."

I looked him straight in the eye and did not yield. He sighed, his face weary, and then reached a conclusion all on his own.

"We'll call this off. I'm turning the carriage around."

"Do as you like. This is my business, and I'll handle it myself."

His patronizing air—as if he were withdrawing some gracious favor—stoked my temper, and I snapped at him. In any case, he and I wanted different things. We were never going to walk the same road to the end.

I nearly told him to let me off here and now, then closed my mouth at the thought of having to return to Daisy House to change. I turned my gaze to the window, shutting him out. The man who had seemed ready to turn the carriage around at once was, for some reason, silent.

His face was reflected in the carriage glass, staring at my profile as if he meant to bore straight through it.